


S.F. (I) Morocco

by Sarah_Elmira_Royster_Poe



Series: The Geography of Europe [2]
Category: Brideshead Revisited - All Media Types, Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
Genre: Gen, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:59:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1604369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Elmira_Royster_Poe/pseuds/Sarah_Elmira_Royster_Poe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epistle written by Sebastian Flyte to Charles Ryder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	S.F. (I) Morocco

Times are not convenient  
Times are not lenient  
On us  
On me  
We make our own paths, our own echoes  
You would say, I am sure  
But tell me,  
Are we really self made?

I will always have them close at heart,  
These old days, when we complained about the weather,  
The china, the wine,  
The slow ticking of clocks

When we scribbled ancient lines  
On each other’s skin  
\- Sunt lacrimae rerum,  
We would start –  
Strolling at Caius,  
Laughing with the stuttering man  
Standing on the balcony,  
Reciting Rimbaud  
And the barred words were being heard  
By the mouth of an Eton boy  
By the heart of a sinner  
As Clive, scandalized, shouted  
“Sodomites, beware!”  
He was fuming and we were laughing,  
Drunk on each other, on wine, on Rimbaud

Or I think of these other days,  
When we lounged under the trees’ shadows  
Wanting to bury gold,  
So as to keep the moment at heart  
Intact  
With us

Then, there were Venice  
Then, then were the sun  
And Bernini, Michelangelo  
Then, there were Julia  
And the carnival  
Blue waters lighted the arcs at night

I saw, you know,  
You were caught like a rabbit in headlights  
You never said anything  
I always waited  
Even on the same night,  
When we gathered at the small oppressive chapel

Long after,  
I asked you to pass me my cigar,  
Naked in the bronze tub  
Despising you

I decided that day,  
\- that night to be exact –  
You did not notice  
Mesmerized as you were, by her hair, mouth, eyes  
We have the same eyes  
Had

The decision was not hard, naturally

I never expected to see  
\- hear –  
Your even gait  
Your tailored suits  
Under the sun  
Speaking low, guttural, too refined French  
You were standing, amongst the palm trees  
Sweaty and flushed  
White skin and black clothes  
Standing out amongst the white robed men

You did not try enough,  
To lure me back  
Otherwise, you would have never boarded that plane alone

Oh,  
And don’t get killed in that war.  
It’s not yours to fight in it.

At least she had my eyes.

All I have,  
S.F.

P.S. Nanny was right that first day. She had left her rosary to fall to the ground.  
P.P.S. I wish the damned house to burn to the ground. That would unbind us all from her spell. She died but she still lives in these bricks.

**Author's Note:**

> The name "Clive" was a salute to Clive Durham, a character of Maurice, by E.M. Forster
> 
> The stuttering man is of course, Anthony Blanche.


End file.
